


The Taste of Mint

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 01:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10843407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa liked the work (even if it didn't pay well). She liked the experience, and the co-workers (and even the small cozy office itself and the running joke of having ten printers but only one of them working).She enjoyed everything about this office save her boss.In short: he was a hard ass.But he also had beautiful eyes. And warm, wandering fingers.





	The Taste of Mint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [playwhatgoeson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwhatgoeson/gifts).



> [Sending @playwhatgoeson (and whoever else needs it) some “good luck getting a job!!” vibes with a pxs fic!]

 

            Sansa’s parents always had high expectations of her, always _knew_ that she would be successful in any and all endeavors she aspired to. A child with an endless desire to learn. A child with an endless well of creativity and imagination. A child who scored high marks on all of her exams (well, her marks weren’t super high in maths, but they were high enough to merit looks of jealousy from most of the class).

            Sansa therefore knew she would make it through college with equally high marks and rounds of praise, and at the end have a wonderful, fulfilling job that would lend her paying back the thousands of dollars of private school tuition loans. A job with pleasant co-workers, with a kind boss, with work she thrilled at completing each day.

            Sansa therefore was not used to the _lack_ of offers during her final year of college. Each day, tapping fingers against her desk as she completed final projects, waiting for the _ping_ of her phone to signal the flood of job offers. Each day, praying anxiously to the gods that her marks were good enough and her club activities were good enough and that she – Sansa Stark, brightest child of her family, fifth smartest student in her entire class – was _good enough_.

            One. Only one, solitary email came through a week after graduation. A potential internship with a firm not too far from her off-campus housing in King’s Landing (and in the opposite direction of traffic (great). But in the opposite direction of her friends (not great), who seemed to all land gigs in the heart of King’s Landing). But it was _something_. She put on her cleanest dress and her newest eyeshadow as she went for the interview.

            A short-time position, the boss said. An unpaid internship. But something to fill the time with productivity while she waited for a _proper_ job to knock on her door. A few days, she thought. A week, two weeks tops.

            It was nearing five months now.

            Sansa still checked her email every morning with a certain _anxiety_. Kept it in the background as she worked.

            And the work – gods, she’d never been so mentally drained before, even after five years of college.

            From ten in the morning to seven at night Sansa worked and worked and worked. (This was a choice, mind you – the hours were flexible and Sansa enjoyed being able to fill her early mornings with chores or workouts before leaving for work at nine-thirty. The only issue of coming to work late meant leaving work late. Seven o’clock often turned into seven-fifteen or seven-thirty or eight).

            It wasn’t _terrible_ working non-stop. It wasn’t terrible seeing the little clock on the corner of her computer jump from 10:04 to 1:31 to 3:11 (around which she would take lunch) to 5:24 to 6:56. The last stretch of her day was a toss-up: sometimes she would finish her work and sneak out and be in her car driving home by seven. Other times she would tell herself _just one more thing_ and then the clock would jump again to 7:34. Other times (and these were by far the worst) Sansa would tell herself _just one more thing_ that would actually take three minutes to finish, but her boss comes in and gives her something else to do at the last minute, or describe the edits she’d need to make tomorow, or a new project they had taken on. And 6:56 would become 7:58.

            The days went by quickly in a flurry of redlines and plan checks and looking up codes for the different counties.

            Her co-workers were great. That was another good thing. A shorter woman with a thick Essosi accent and decades of experience, cracking jokes and implications at how _legal_ their work was. An older man from Dorne with a warm laugh and jokes that didn’t quite translate into the common tongue. Other interns that looked to her as someone who knew what she was doing – and Sansa eventually revealing that she, in fact, knew about as much as they did. Which was to say, not much.

            But she was eager to learn. Eager to understand the workings of how projects came to be: from working with the clients to drafting the plans to dealing with the city and the codes and the clients again. It wasn’t the most _ideal_ job to learn. Nor was it the smoothest or the most _legal_.

            Sansa’s first paycheck was fifty dollars. “For gas money,” her boss said. Written on a check and handed to her just as she was walking out the door. Everyone else in the office (a small office, with an average of ten people, most of whom hadn’t been there any longer than she) was paid the same way. A quickly written check, or bills from a hasty trip to the bank. She was up to four hundred and fifty dollars a week now.

            The work, the experience, the co-workers, even the small cozy office itself and the running joke of having ten printers but only one of them working – Sansa did enjoy it.

            She enjoyed everything about this office save her boss.

            In short: a hard ass. In long: a hard ass with high expectations from people that didn’t entirely know what they were doing.

            To be fair, he _did_ have some redeeming qualities. He was great at bullshitting the clients to give Sansa extra time to get her stuff done (which wasn’t _her_ fault she wasn’t finished, since her boss piled on four other projects to finish before this one). He made a wonderful mint tea for the office – a giant quart at a time, its smell seeping into the rooms of the small office. It became a comforting scent. Usually he would fill the cups and pass them to the employees, and Sansa loved the delicate bone china cup she almost always got. She’d finger the lattice pattern on it, cupping it in her fingers, letting the sharp mint fill her nostrils before sipping.

            He also had beautiful eyes. A soft green some days, a warm grey the others. Not quite like the moss that grew in the forests by Winterfell. Nor quite like the skies in the morning after a rain.

            But they _smiled_ for her, she thought. Those hard lines at the edges of his face, those forced smiles he gave to clients and whenever someone messed up. His eyes never contained mirth or pleasantness. _Only for me_ , she thought.

            At the end of the fourth month, Sansa reached for that familiar white cup with that familiar comforting smell. Her boss usually set the mugs down, but not today. He held it, stretched it out for her, didn’t set it down despite the clearing Sansa kept clear by her monitor. She turned and saw those soft eyes (more grey today) and a hand outstretched for her.

            Sansa wanted something better for herself. Her parents wanted something better for her. They were glad at the opportunity months ago, excited for this short step towards a better future. Days turned to weeks turned to months. And still Sansa worked tiring hours for a pittance. She wanted something better; knew she _deserved_ better. But there was _something_ that was keeping her from frantically scouring for new jobs as the months faded into one another. _Something_ that made her ignore phone calls, watch as the screen rang itself off.

            And as she reached for the small mug, her fingers having to wrap around his, Sansa realized _what_ that something was.

            “Thank you,” she said. Her hand was soaking up the warmth of his fingers, feeling that heat snake its way up and up her arm. It stretched throughout her body: clarity in her mind at _realization_ ; fear in her heart at that not-quite-soft way his eyes focused on her face; something _untoward_ lower inside her – between her legs.

            His hands were soft, warm. The rings he wore were cool. One had an emerald, deep green and prominently displayed on his right hand. Sansa tried to imagine the mossy gaze of his eyes as that shade instead, and it didn’t quite work. She liked the grey, liked how it toned down the sharpness of emerald. Liked how it mimicked his hair – grey amongst black, grey amongst green.

            His eyes smiled, his voice a low “You’re welcome.”

            Weeks passed without a similar interaction. Sansa would sometimes force herself to be so engrossed in editing plans that she didn’t see when he came in with that familiar lattice white mug. As she cupped the mug, she tried not to picture the warmth of the tea as the warmth of his fingers beneath hers. Or the warmth of his fingers as he trailed up along her arm, or set them against her cheek as he bent down to kiss her.

            Nope – Sansa drained the tea and got back to work.

            The end of the fifth month was when they were scheduled to submit a project to the client. A custom home, built on the side of a hillside lot, three stories tall and an absolute monster for the structural department to devise. None of the plans were finished (this was a preliminary thing), and everyone in the office was corralled into working on it these last few days. Sansa had to finish calling out the various items and finishes on the plans that a co-worker started. He had to leave early for something rather (he was a quiet man, and Sansa couldn’t make out much of his life other than he’d worked here for years because the hours were flexible). The other people had excuses, too: have to go pick up my daughter, have to go to an assembly for my son’s school, have a dentist appointment.

            Seven o’clock was nearing, and Sansa was the only one left in the office.

            The client came in half an hour ago, talking with her boss, wondering where the plans were and why they hadn’t been finished yet. He was a brute of a man: taller than anyone she’d ever seen, with a permanent scowl and tattoos crawling up under the collar of his shirt to snake around his neck. There was a joke that he was going to kill everyone for not having his project done, and at this point Sansa thought he might crack.

            “I expected you to have it done _a week ago_ , Baelish. So I gave you another week, and you’re _still_ not done?”

            Sansa cringed. Without the quiet _click_ ing and _tap_ ping of her co-workers, the emptiness only amplified the man’s anger. They were in the conference room out of view of her desk, but she could imagine the scene: her boss, sitting with fingers templed before him. The client, standing, leaning against the head of a chair with a red face and tattoos that were sure to come alive and rampage through the office. She said a quiet prayer to the gods that today wasn’t her last day on earth.

            “I understand, and we have been working hard to get the plans completed. However, the complicated nature of the site makes it difficult for my engineers to figure everything out.”

            He was so calm, so _unaffected_ by the client’s obvious outrage. Sansa wished she had that same coolness to her – she was sure to have broken down crying by now.

            “You said that last week. And the week before. Honestly, Baelish, if I’d have known how _incompetent_ you really were, I never would have signed with you.”

            Sansa laughed. It was true – this office was filled with people fresh from college without knowing what in the seven hells they were doing; and with people with experience from different countries with different rules. The structural department was a joke too, but with even _less_ understanding of what they were doing.

            Her boss didn’t say anything. She imagined him taking a slow breath, figuring out how he was going to lie his way this time.

            “Actually,” he began, “we _have_ finished the preliminary plans to be sent to the HOA.” Sansa froze halfway between labeling rooms. “You can take a set to the meeting tomorrow, and I promise we will take those new comments and have everything ready for submittal to the city by beginning of next week.”

            Sansa looked at the printouts splayed before her. There were still a handful of redlines she hadn’t finished on this sheet, and there were half a dozen pages left.

            “You’re not shitting me, are you Baelish?” The client sounded as dumbstruck as Sansa felt.

            “Of course not.” She heard the smile that instead said: _Of course I am_. He continued: “Let me go and check with my employee. She should be finishing up and printing the sheets in a moment.”

            The highlighter froze, soaking a soppy yellow pool into the paper. Sansa was nearly finished with the sheet, yes, but it was just past seven now and she had hoped to finish the rest of the sheets first thing tomorrow morning. She looked up, watching her boss through the window at the front of the room. He stared forward, not looking at her, turning the corner, entering.

            “Have you printed the sheets yet? Our client is very anxious to submit his project, as you heard.”

            His steps were quick, stopping just shy of the edge of her desk. Sansa stared up at him, her highlighter still plaguing the sheet yellow, the stack of unfinished edits below.

            _Anxious_ wasn’t the word Sansa would use to describe the brutish man. _Royally pissed_ was close to the truth.

            But she stared at her boss, finally freeing the sheet and capping her highlighter. She set it beside the others: pink and orange and green. She arranged them, lined them up beside her keyboard, setting the unfinished sheet aside before turning to look back up into mossy eyes. “Not yet, Mr Baelish,” Sansa said, motioning towards the desk in the corner. “Keelan had a lot more corrections that he didn’t finish before he left, so I’ve still got a few more sheets to edit before they’re done.” _They’re far from done_ , she thought. And: _if you hadn’t had me hurry to finish the Tully remodel today I could’ve had time to finish this one._

            He picked up the stack of uncorrected pages, flipping through them quickly. “I see.” Another flip, before shuffling them back into a neat pile beside her arm. “I had expected more from you, Sansa, but there’s nothing we can do now. Go plot a set of what we have and you can finish the corrections tomorrow.”

            Sansa shot up from her desk, accusing words of _It’s not my fault I’m not finished yet!_ stuck in her throat. Instead she said, “Okay. Just one set?”

            Her boss cocked his head at her, a quizzical smile playing at his lips. He nodded, turning to leave.

            Sansa sighed, embarrassed at her near-outburst. It was Thursday, long past seven already. She took a five-minute lunch to finish up her work, hoping to have been out of here by six-thirty. This wasn’t even the first or fifth time this had happened – Sansa didn’t know why she kept assuming she’d ever finish at a decent hour.

            _I’m going to be home late tonight,_ she texted Jeyne. Their dinner plans weren’t completely shot – at least restaurants would be empty at eight. _Almost done, text you when I leave_.

            _Okay_ , was Jeyne’s only response.

            Sansa saved the sheets and tidied up her desk. She didn’t turn her computer off yet though – there was always _something_ at the last minute he corralled her to do.

            The plotter was a large thing, old and loud. It didn’t drown out the exasperated sigh of the client, who still stood leaning over the chair. There was a sliver of the conference room she could see from the plotter, and she moved away when the big man turned to her.

            The slice of paper was relaxing. One sheet down, nineteen to go.

            “Would you like some coffee while we print the sheets? Should be done in a few minutes.”

            Sansa scoffed. It took a few minutes just to print _one_ sheet. Somehow her boss could make shit turn to gold with the flick of his words. If that were the case, then perhaps she and her co-workers would be getting paid an actual salary.

            Two sheets down. Eighteen.

            She heard the sound of the coffee machine boiling water, smelled that rich, heady aroma fill the space. It wasn’t long before a cup of it wafted past her and into the meaty hands of the client. The cup looked so small, so fragile in his hand.

            Three down.

            “Sansa.”

            She jumped. She had been staring at the plotter, watching the paper print in inch increments (there were thirty-six inches to a sheet). She hadn’t seen her boss sneak up behind her.

            “Yes, Mr Baelish?” Sansa hoped there wasn’t something _else_ wrong, or something _else_ she had to get done tonight.

            He took a step forward, only a single step left separating them. She had nowhere to go – the plotter stood behind her, rolls of drawings littering either side. Sansa didn’t move back, and he didn’t move forward. Those two feet separating them was unchartered territory – she couldn’t help but wonder if he would dare cross the boundary.

            “I _do_ expect better of you, Sansa. Truly. I want you to learn, to understand how projects come to fruition, and I want you to be better when you leave than when you came in.”

            He was staring at her, an intent thing focused on her eyes. It always was – focused, forced. Sansa wondered if it might have been because he had trouble keeping his gaze with hers.

            She licked her lips, parting them before answering: “I understand, Mr Baelish. And I _have_ learned, learned a lot. But _truly_ , I didn’t have time to finish these edits tonight.”

            Four down.

            Sansa saw it: when she licked her lips, left them open for a second longer than typical, red and moistened – he broke that focused gaze for a heartbeat. She felt it, a _pull_ within the two foot boundary that separated them. She felt it, a _warmth_ that begun to spread inside her.

            Five.

            “I understand, Sansa. But _truly_ , you’ve embarrassed me in front of a client. I’ll need to present to him an unfinished set of drawings, and tomorrow he’ll call and yell and I’ll need to come up with _another_ clever lie.”

            He crossed the boundary.

            “Perhaps,” he continued, “you could help me come up with one.”

            Fingers pressed into either side of her face, cradling her in warmth. Sansa stared at him, trying her best to ignore how absolutely _improper_ this touch from _her boss_ was. Trying her best not to let her body lean into his touch, or arch forward and beg for more. She hated her traitorous body, hated her heart – but she wasn’t sure if she would hate if something did happen.

            “What sort of _lie_ would you need?” she managed with a calm voice. It was soft, though, not at all demanding or controlling of the situation. And gods knew she was not in control at all.

            His thumb brushed against her skin, catching a strand of hair in its movement. Slow strokes, slow movements – she might have been imagining them.

            Six. Or was it seven?

            “That I misjudged the amount of time it would take to complete the corrections?” His other thumb moved, and Sansa felt dizzy. “Or that I was swamped with other work and didn’t make his priority? Which, by the way sweetling, is never a thing to tell a client.” She saw him lick his lips, saw his eyes move down to hers. Sansa licked hers, too, but whether to mimic or to entice, she wasn’t sure. “Or, that I was so caught up in _correcting_ the behavior of an employee I lost track of time? Which, Sansa, as I’ve told you before,” he brought his face close to hers, moving one hand to capture her chin. There was less than an inch of air separating their lips. She could taste the mint of his breath, could feel the warmth of his skin seep into hers. It was comforting, it was arousing. It was wrong. “Call me Petyr.”

            There was a pause, an _assessment_ into Sansa’s eyes, before Petyr pressed his lips against hers.

            She pressed back, placing her hands against his chest for purchase. His kept her face still – not pulling into him, not pushing her away. There was a short-lived notion that this was all _her_ choice, before Sansa remembered _who_ it was she was kissing.

            Sansa pulled away, only a few inches, the taste of his lips still on hers. “Petyr, we can’t…”

            Petyr looked up into her, a slight grin on his lips at the sound of his name. The grip on her face loosened but did not leave. That soft, gentle moss turned dark: midnight clouds heavy with rain.

            “We really _shouldn’t_ ,” Sansa whispered, her eyes flicking around the corner to spy the big man scrolling through his phone. The plotter behind her slid its blade, the sheet _whoosh_ ing into the tray. She lost count of how many had finished printing. She lost count of how many they had left.

            Sansa turned her gaze back towards Petyr. “Half the sheets have plotted by now, I think.”

            Petyr’s eyes gleamed with understanding. He leaned to press his face by her ear, his beard a delightful scratch against her skin: “Then we’d best be _quick_ , sweetling. And you’d best be _quiet_. Wouldn’t want to draw his attention, now would we?”

            A spark flittered from her cheek down between her legs.

            Was she really going to do this? To do these things with _her boss_ (her mind emphasized, and in the distance of her brain: warning alarms were peeling)?

            Yes.

            His lips were back onto her, tongue lapping over and tasting and savoring in the feel of Sansa. Fingers threaded through her hair, pressing into her scalp, crushing their lips against each other. By the time Sansa threaded her own fingers in the short curls (so soft) of his head, Petyr’s tongue was asking permission for her to open her lips. It was a tentative push, but _hungering_. Sansa complied. She opened her mouth, letting him taste her, and he let her taste him.

            A hand snaked its way down her curls, rounding down her back and across her blouse, cupping a breast through the fabric. Sansa leaned into it, the feel of his fingers electrifying the fervent press of his fingers on her scalp. Those were hard, harsh – but this hand was gentle. Rubbing circles around her breast, thumb pressing against her nipple, up and down and in circles. With each pass, Sansa’s body pressed harder into his hand, _aching_ for more. Aching for the feel of his fingers against her bare skin.

            She broke their lips apart, a nearly-silent “Please” the only sound aside from their breaths and the low whir behind her.

            Petyr kindly obliged, untucking her blouse from her skirt. Slowly he trailed fingertips across the flat plane of her stomach, up her sides, down and across her stomach again – an agonizing ache for her, an exciting exploration for him. She was about to beg again before Petyr finally relented and cupped Sansa through her bra. She gasped, the sound captured inside Petyr’s mouth. His fingers gave a squeeze at her nipples, as if to say: _Be quiet, remember?_

            Sansa moaned _Okay_ in response.

            Petyr awarded her by tucking the pesky fabric down, his fingers exploring the feel of her bare skin: the softness of her breasts, the size that fit perfectly in his palms. The hardness of her nipples, and which way to tug or pinch or press to elicit different moans of pleasure into his mouth. She wondered if it was agonizing for Petyr to keep her _quiet_. And by the way he was pressing his fingers, and the way his body was trapping hers, she could feel that yes – Petyr would have thrilled in hearing her scream and moan.

            Sansa kept one hand firmly tugging in his hair and managed to trail the other down the side of him, the fine fabric of his suit soft to the touch. She hoped his own skin was as pleasant to feel, was as wonderful to run her fingers through over and over again. Down she went, cupping Petyr’s hardness through his pants. He bit her lip. It hurt, and it felt good, and Sansa wanted to make him squirm and moan as much as he was making her. Her hand rubbed slow, agonizing strokes in time with his hand on her breasts. He was growing harder in her palm. Petyr moaned into her mouth.

            She felt him smile, saw it as they broke apart for air. “You wicked little thing,” Petyr murmured as he hooked his thumbs in the waist of her skirt and inched it down, slowly, so slowly. He’d barely lowered it enough to fully reveal her underwear, his hand hovering above the fabric. Petyr bent towards her ear again, whispering: “To think you get off from the idea of fucking in public. The wicked idea of being found?”

            Sansa had _forgot_. She shot her gaze towards the man in the other room. He was still on his phone, but she could see the furrow of lines on his face. He was upset, impatient. How much longer would he wait before he sauntered over to see what was taking so damn long?

            How much longer before they were caught?

            Petyr’s fingers rubbed against her through the fabric, and the man with the phone and the conference room and the constant whir of the plotter faded into the feeling of Petyr. Everything faded away until the only things that existed were Sansa and him and the building ache between her legs. She could smell herself. She began panting again, whispered pleas of _more_.

            He obliged. One finger hooking the fabric to the side, one rubbing the length of her cunt in long, slow strokes. It wasn’t enough – Sansa pressed down against his hand, rolled her hips. More more _more_. Her mouth and her body _needed_ the release that was building inside her. She needed him.

            Petyr pushed his finger in, so horribly, painfully slow. When he was up to the knuckle, he paused, letting Sansa’s body get used to the delightful intrusion and the feel of him. And after she did, Petyr pushed in another finger, just as slowly. When they were both fully seated, he moved them apart, stretching Sansa’s walls into a wicked delight of pain and pleasure.

            His voice whispered into the emptiness of Sansa’s world: “Fuck my hand, Sansa. And don’t stop till you come.”

            So she did. Slow movements of her hips at first, pressing up and down against his fingers. The sound was obscene, the smell strong. Sansa held onto Petyr’s shoulders, fingers digging into him as she moved faster and faster. She found a combination of rolling her hips around and around, and moving her body up and down. Faster, Sansa was moving, her whole body on fire. Faster, her whole body chasing that needed pleasure that was so damn close. But no matter how fast she moved it remained just _there_ out of reach.

            Sansa moaned into Petyr’s mouth, an exasperated thing. There was sweat building along her skin, dripping down onto the junction of their lips.

            And finally, after excruciating seconds of _almost there_ , Petyr laughed into her and pumped his hand. His thumb moved in a large circle around her clit, not quite there either. Sansa moaned again, _please_ she begged. _Please please, I want to come, please Petyr._

            He relented, pressing his thumb against her clit, rubbing it in circles in the same rhythm that he moved his hand into her cunt. And there it was again, that release so close, just _there_.

            Sansa rolled her hips once, twice, and on the third time she came, her screams swallowed by Petyr. Her hands gripped onto his shoulders, her legs failing her in the shock of orgasm. On and on Petyr worked his fingers, guiding Sansa down from the high that permeated throughout her entire body. She felt her heart pounding in her cunt, in her head, felt her entire body release itself into a peaceful lull.

            When the waves of her orgasm passed, her breathing heavy, Sansa released her fingers from Petyr’s shoulders. They hurt to open. Smoothing down her bra and blouse as Petyr righted her skirt with his clean hand. The one that had so wickedly set her mewling like a whore was being licked and sucked clean.

            Sansa stared at him, at the blackness of his eyes and the depraved lips sucking his fingers dry.

            It was then she realized how quiet it was.

            Petyr glanced at the silent plotter, a wicked smile etched upon his lips as he removed his fingers and wiped them dry on his pants. He tamped the smile down, trying to push it aside, but still it lingered. “I suppose we’ll need to finish _this_ later, sweetling. When you’re free to scream my name.” Sansa saw the aching bulge in his pants, one that he covered with the roll of sheets he collected from the plotter. “He should be gone before I’ve gone soft. And if I have, well, I’d love to see how deft your fingers are.”

            He left with a wink and kiss to her cheek. That seemed more indecent – the false innocence despite the proof of what they had just done. But Sansa couldn’t hide the smile that was tugging at her lips, too.

            It was closer to nine when Sansa finally texted Jeyne: _Sorry, just left! Sooooo much work to do and not even done :/_

_What a prick!_ Jeyne texted back when Sansa got into her car. _You really need to get a better job quick, girl. That asshole is totally using you!_

            Sansa’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She stared at Jeyne’s words, and felt her insides splitting. Yes, she definitely _definitely_ needed a better job (and one that was _actually_ a job, with a salary and benefits and the works). But yes, she definitely _definitely_ liked Petyr using her in that wicked way, to an unhealthy amount. Leaving this job would also leave him behind.

            She pressed her head against the steering wheel. Perhaps the secret answer lay in osmosis with the cold leather.

            Either way, she decided to sleep on it. There was still plenty of time to find a job and figure out what to do with her current one in the time between. Still plenty of time to figure out that roiling storm of her heart.

            The drive home was permeated by the delicious pain on her lips and between her legs, and the lingering taste of mint.           

 

**Author's Note:**

> [I always get really caught up in the worldbuilding / exposition, so uh a little bit sorry for that lol. Fun fact: 90% of this was inspired by an actual internship that I had. And it was definitely not legit so. Yeah. But I’m sure you could figure out which was the 10% I made up ;)
> 
> Anywho – here’s hoping everyone has awesome jobs coming their way (and soon)! :D ]


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